


We'll Make Foul Weather

by smamatha



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Desperation, Kissing, M/M, RSC compliant, repressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smamatha/pseuds/smamatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aumerle weeps for Richard's imminent deposition, for the unfaceable fall of a king he loves so dearly. When Richard comforts him, they are suddenly confronted by how deep the feeling runs between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Make Foul Weather

“Thou weep’st my tender-hearted cousin!” Richard comes close at the sight of Aumerle. It is his defeat, his divine crown evoked in such callous apathy that takes the strength from Aumerle’s legs, that has him curl, like a child, and cry. He cannot face Richard like this, he cannot bear to look upon him.

Richard touches the crook of his neck and Aumerle recoils, he flinches as if pained, and draws in a breath to steady his weeping. He turns to face Richard, sitting beside him, his brows knitted in his consternation, his expression so undone. There is a question in his fluttering, restless eyes; there is a plea; how can you let yourself be defeated? The king cannot answer. He sees his own inward ruin manifested in Aumerle’s artless trust, in his dissolution, as the man Aumerle most believes in lies down to his fate. Richard’s lip trembles, his noble shoulders sag as he answers with the small shake of his head; himself at a loss, himself in need of anything else to save him from despair.

Richard laces his hands around Aumerle in an embrace, in a tentative comfort as the other man grieves so unashamedly. Richard is wide-eyed as he holds him, he is measured, but tremulous. He holds Aumerle for a brief moment, he grips to the last shred of loyalty he knows, the last sobbing sign of love for him, which will soon be so absent from court, and the people, and his England. It is a brief moment of embrace. Richard lingers on his decline, he sees it in Aumerle’s tears. There is a pause, as they meet one another’s eyes, and Richard quivers before he leans towards the man again and kisses him softly and without thought.

Aumerle’s mourning is afforded a moment of silence and they stay still together, in a chaste, frantic, stolen comfort. They part gently, both of their sorrows forgotten for an instant, and Richard leans back in surprise. Fear trickles into his features; his raised but creased brow, his mouth agape. Aumerle, staggered, looks to him, as he always does, for another instruction. They meet each other’s eyes, there is panic in Richard’s, hesitation, and Aumerle is speechless; their hands are placed precariously, drifting towards one another’s knees, bent onto the other man’s body.

Before Richard can turn away, before he can speak, or deny, Aumerle launches himself back into Richard’s embrace. He is less poised, less tentative, snatching the moment back. Richard recoils, he stutters away from the staggering intensity, for a fraction, but Aumerle follows, locking his lips with the other man’s, and Richard’s reservation dissipates under his desire. He melds to Aumerle, the two interlock, their hands instantly on one another’s cheeks, tender, desperate. Richard kisses Aumerle with no restraint; not a thing for him to lose now. He kisses Aumerle upon being caressed, touched with delicate hands, when he is not shunned, when this man remains so loyal and, yes, loving. When Aumerle kisses so deeply, a gesture, a return, a queer expression of everything he would not dare expose before; as a king or a man. Richard is weak in Aumerle’s arms; he is formless; he is himself stripped of majesty, of restraint. He is frail, and he draws Aumerle in, he drinks him in, to relish the humanness of such a frailty.

Aumerle kisses Richard as he has always longed to. The brush of his lips, the ghosting taste of his comfort rouses Aumerle too deeply in his distress. He could only wrest this chance now; in this fleeting moment, Richard’s slender fingers upon his collarbone, in the downy backs of his ears, his breath warm and close; Aumerle can do little but hold himself to the king, because he has never wanted to let go.

Richard gasps, erratically, minutely, unable to release himself, shuddering in the other man’s grip. He clasps tightly to Aumerle’s face; too afraid, too acutely aware to be gentle.There is the sweetness of the man, the mocking delirium of his longing; he feels the slickness of his tongue, the warmth from his hand upon his thigh, the fervour boiling in his stomach and he keens to it, arches a fraction towards more of Aumerle. He submits to it, for as long as he is allowed; he is contented in feeling something; a fiery pull he has stifled in himself. Richard will be deposed. He will be stripped of his throne, and of his tower, and, oh, of his crown. But here he is still king of his griefs and his desires. Here he is a man, and he is Aumerle’s.


End file.
